A flare, like a blinding flashlight, shines at the fore
Puddles of deep crimson crawl laterally - as if that bright dot was the wound
At the periphery, all the hues of bruising - indigo to a shade of purple indistinguishable from black
The colors tuned up by the heat of inflammation felt - but not seen - in the cold view of one beaten to the edge of life
As well as, by the harsh lighting - blues and reds dancing from lightbars and wig-wags of police cars and fire trucks - shining over the carnage.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged poem, poetry by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
